It gets a little stuffy in the house during winter months. Between homeschooling, snowstorms, and settling fights – I occasionally need a change of scenery! So when that feeling strikes, I usually just pull on my coat and hop in the pickup with My Cowboy. Works every time. 🙂 I also usually take my camera along, just because I never tire of cows and the high prairie. Plus, my goal is to improve my photography skills. I have a real impatience with editing photos, so I try to get them correct straight out of the camera. I do have to edit a little sometimes, but probably 80% or so of my photos on this blog are not edited at all. That’s not saying they are that great… my passion is writing, not photography! 😉 But I do enjoy it as a hobby.
So we drove out to the back forty – or was that the south 3,000? anyways, all you have to do is blow the truck horn, and those mama cows start running. They know what that means, and they love to eat! Come to think of it, so do I, when I am pregnant! 😀
I stepped out of the truck and snapped a few pics. On one side, this old girl was complaining about the wait…
And on the other side of the truck, they were not waiting, but just helping themselves.
And in the middle of it all, this mama was calmly studying me and Ree. Should I tell her that her slobbers are flying? I don’t want to hurt her feelings. When I got bored with mama cows, I started snapping photos of my baby. She loves cows. She loves to ride in Daddy’s truck. Both at once make her happy, despite her pensive expression.They crowd around the cake truck, waiting rather impatiently.
And then the sight of a tiny cabin like the one below, surrounded by miles of nothing but grass, sky and a few cows, make me want to turn pioneer. I don’t really want to live in that cabin – it’s likely falling in and full of holes and snakes. But the setting…the idea…the dreaminess…
I can see it now; little log cabin all tidy inside, with a red geranium on the table, and a straw broom by the door. There would be an old wood table, worn smooth from the years, a crackling fire in the tiny wood stove, and a gun over the door. A handmade quilt would grace the bed in the corner, and the room would smell faintly of kerosene, from the lamp on the table. My journal would be open, with sharp pencils laying beside it. I would write and write and write. And when I would get tired of writing, I would sit on the doorstep, just drinking in the clean prairie air, listening to the meadowlarks and the rustling of the breeze in the grass.